by Catie Rhodes
“I think I went about this the wrong way.” The woman grinned, giving me another view of her awful teeth. She held out her hand to shake mine. “I’m Veronica. I know Rae from way back.”
I shook her hand, holding her bloodshot gray gaze. She squeezed too hard. I squeezed right back, enjoying the way her eyes widened.
“I know you want your belongings.” I worked to keep my voice non-confrontational. “I haven’t had time to clean out her trailer. I don’t know what all’s back there.”
“That’s all right. I can just dig through until I find what I want.” I’d seldom seen eyes hard as granite, like hers. They chilled me. Veronica was more than just a bully. Her eyes hinted at true craziness.
“No.” I kept emotion out of my voice, leaving no room for negotiation or an opening to try to talk me into caving.
“If that’s how you gonna be, fine.” She gave me the finger and walked backward down the steps.
I laughed at her, but I had to force it. My heart beat so hard I could barely breathe. The encounter over, my adrenaline spike gave way to dizziness. I leaned against the doorjamb.
Veronica turned her back on me and stomped out to her ratty, midsize car. She gave me another hard look before she got inside. Roaring the engine, she spun the car around, throwing gravel, and raced down the driveway.
The visit shook me up enough to dig out my cellphone. My fingers hovered over the buttons, but I couldn’t quite make myself dial the sheriff’s office. An encounter with sourpuss Dean Turgeau might be worse than Veronica and her teeth.
While I thought it over, my cellphone’s screen tiled and then went blank. “Damned worn out piece of technology belongs in the trash,” I muttered. I checked our landline and found it working. By then, I decided against calling the law. What would they do anyway?
Time to get about my business. In a plastic box in the pantry, I found a padlock and hasp. I’d clean out the trailer and secure it. Make it a little harder for Veronica to break in if she decided to take matters into her own hands.
I loaded my supplies into a wheelbarrow and started the journey across the pasture. As I trudged, I thought about Veronica’s visit. Had she been the one Rae owed money? If so, what on earth for? Toothpaste?
The trailer’s reek assaulted me when I opened the door. I put my hand to my mouth and gagged. A clutter of magazines and paper plates littered the floor, mashed down by dozens of trampling feet. A half-eaten TV dinner on the counter crawled with flies. Blood stained the entire place.
Memaw and I bought this trailer for fishing vacations at Lake Sam Rayburn, a couple of hours south. Neither of us would want to use it again. The smell alone was enough to turn me off for life.
Once my stomach behaved, I opened the trailer’s windows and got to work. Into a garbage bag went the make-up, costume jewelry, and flashy clothes. A few magazines and DVDs of romantic comedies joined them. Everything had been stepped on or had blood on it.
I opened a cabinet and backpedaled when I saw the contents. The type sold in toy stores, the Ouija board looked innocent. But I didn’t care to touch it. I needed no help contacting the spirit world. Why did Rae have this? I grabbed the thing with a towel-covered hand, dropping it in the trash bag.
Before too long, I decided any hints to the murderer’s identity were sitting in a crime lab somewhere. The remaining items in the trailer were junk. It had to be packed up, though.
The odor inside worsened as the temperature rose. My rising gorge threatened to make me quit. Maroon smears of blood covered the table where Rae’s body had lain. The bench seat’s cushions were ruined and the source of most of the odor.
I threw them outside and forced myself to get back to work. Underneath the cushions, I found storage bins containing a small tool kit, a water hose, a can of fix-a-flat, an extension cord, and several cheap plastic tarps.
The crime scene investigators had rifled through the whole mess, leaving it in a tangle. Blood had seeped through the cushion, trickled through a crack and left a crusty brown coating on the junk. I tore the contents from the bins and tossed it outside with the cushions.
Back inside the trailer, Eau de Dollar Store competed with the stench of death. I rummaged in the garbage bag, making sure I hadn’t broken a bottle of Rae’s noxious perfume. Frigid fingers gripped my arm. I shrieked and spun around. Rae’s apparition, now green-faced, stood behind me. A mournful moan filled the trailer, raising the fine hairs on my arms.
“If you left something in here,” I said to the empty trailer, “you need to help me find it.”
A cheap porcelain bowl Rae had been using for an ashtray jumped off the windowsill and clattered into the storage bin, breaking into a few pieces and scattering cigarette butts, marijuana roaches, and ash.
“Son of a donkey-loving bitch,” I yelled and knelt to clean up the mess, all the while muttering colorful swear words I bet would have impressed even Tubby Tubman. I wiped up the ash and threw the butts and roaches into a trash bag before I noticed something wrong with the wall.
The cheap particleboard siding had come loose where the storage bin met the trailer’s exterior wall. I tried to push it back into place. When it wouldn’t pop into place, I lost my temper and gave it a hard slam. The siding fell to one side, revealing a thin sketchbook.
I picked it up and flipped through. It held page after page of pen and ink sketches. One drawing depicted me sitting on the back porch smoking a cigarette. It captured me thinking, with arms wrapped around my knees.
“Oh, no.” I whispered. I never knew Rae could draw like this. Now that I did, her loss hit me all over again.
In another sketch, Memaw squatted in her flowerbed, her big sun hat covering most of her face. The detail of veins covering the backs of her hands showed Rae had possessed real talent. A lump formed in my throat, and a wave of sadness stung my heart. What could she have been if life had been kinder or if she’d made better decisions?
A sketch of Chase made me stop and smile. He squinted against the sun, shirtless and holding a beer bottle. Rae had focused on what still made him handsome—the cleft chin, his expressive eyes, and his six-pack abs.
The next sketch took my breath away. A man in a bar with liquor bottles lined up behind him. He wore one of those leather biker caps that fold over the bill, the kind Marlon Brando made famous. He held his cigarette between the index finger and thumb, which drew attention to his hand and the large, fuzzily detailed ring he wore. The man’s face hid in shadow under the bill of the cap.
Was this the man who sent Rae a text message the day she died? Low_Ryder? Had to be. It sucked I found this after seeing Chase. He could have confirmed the drawing depicted Rae’s other boyfriend. A shadow moved in front of me. Rae again.
“Is this him? The other boyfriend?” Silence answered my question. “Can you knock twice if it’s him?”
A cabinet door opened and slammed twice. Louder and harder than necessary. Death hadn’t changed Rae. I thought back to my conversation with Memaw about Barbara. If death couldn’t change Rae, could time change Barbara?
I snapped the book shut and tucked it into the cardboard box. It held shamefully few keepsakes. The evidence of Rae’s time on earth filled only one box and two garbage bags. Tears welled up in my eyes. Her end had been abrupt, leaving so much unfinished business and potential behind. A lump clogged my throat, and I allowed myself the luxury of a few half-hearted sobs.
The door to a narrow closet space gaped open. Inside hung a man’s cotton button down shirt. I pulled it off the hanger. The smell identified it as Chase’s. I held the shirt to my nose and breathed deeply, staining the cloth with my tears. How had things gotten so messed up so fast?
I gathered the box and garbage bags and toted them outside. The small space cleaned out, I could tell I had missed nothing. Rae’s life had been packed away.
The door’s hollow slam had a kind of finality to it. The factory lock would do nothing to keep Rae’s friend Veronica out, but I was too stubborn not to t
ry. My cordless drill screamed as I installed a hasp on the cheap aluminum door. I locked it with the padlock and tucked the key inside Rae’s sketchbook.
Inside the house, I showered and lay down. I woke up in the late evening to find Memaw left a plastic bag of baked goodies on my night table. My stomach rumbled in anticipation, and I wished I had told Memaw that Barbara could not have been a better mother than she’d been.
At eleven p.m. Texas time, I forced myself to call Barbara. I never thought of her as my mother. It was always Barbara with ever-changing last names. When especially angry at her, I called her Barbie, which I knew she loathed.
From the ages of eight through fifteen, I didn’t even see her. On a summer day in my fifteenth year, Barbara turned up laughing and newly married to a hunky construction worker. I thought they would invite me to live with them in their Galveston home. Memaw did, too. Barbara and the hunk stayed through supper. I sat taut with fear and excitement. Memaw looked sad. Neither of us should have worried.
At the end of supper, Barbara announced her husband had a job in Louisiana starting the following week. They were driving there to look for a short lease apartment. Barbara gave me a swift kiss on the cheek, the hunk shook my hand, and they drove off as quickly as they’d come. Three years later, I sent Barbara a letter asking if she’d come to my high school graduation. I sent the letter in March, months before graduation because I didn’t want her to say I didn’t give her enough warning. Six months later, I received a card from Barbara. She apologized for missing my graduation, but she had moved. She sent me a hundred bucks, which I blew on my first tattoo. She probably had no idea I didn’t graduate. They wouldn’t let me come back after I beat up Felicia, and I needed a change of scenery. I moved to Nacogdoches County, got a GED, and applied to the junior college in neighboring Angelina County.
Calling Barbara was not high on my list of want-tos, but Memaw would have my ass if I didn’t. I punched Barbara’s number into my cellphone before I could stop myself. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Hel-looo?” Barbara’s voice always sounded giddy, girlish, and giggly. A hum of conversation murmured in the background. I could practically hear the cocktail glasses clinking.
“It’s Peri Jean.” I waited while Barbara processed who had called her.
“Well…uh…hi, Peri Jean.” Barbara tittered. “What’s up?”
“Rae was murdered.” I could have led up to it, but I went for shock value.
“In prison? Didn’t she get sent away for forgery?” The background noise faded away, and a door clicked shut.
“Hot checks and possession with intent. She got released and moved here about eight months ago.”
Barbara was quiet, probably thinking up excuses to say no to whatever I asked.
“Her funeral—actually memorial service—is Saturday.” My emotions writhed as I waited for her answer even though I had a good idea what she’d say. I wished I could get tough enough for her rejections not to matter.
Barbara exhaled. She finally knew what I wanted. Now she could figure out a way to proceed. “Well, baby, Ron is having an opening next week. I’m sure I can’t come all the way down there.”
Ron was Barbara’s rich, artist husband. He’d lasted longer than the others. I suspected they’d stayed married because Barbara was getting older and couldn’t swing man-to-man anymore.
“Don’t worry about it.” A spiteful edge crept into my voice, but I couldn’t drop it. “I told Memaw you wouldn’t want to come, but she wanted me to make sure. How’s your life, Barbara?”
“It’s good.” Her giggle had a shrill edge to it. “I’m working in a boutique. Ron’s still painting...of course. Dingle—that’s our Labrador—is, well, dingy.”
“Good to hear. You take care, okay?”
“Sure, honey. You, too.” She hung up.
No invitation to visit sometime. No asking me how I was doing. I sat on my bed and wiped the tears off my face with the heel of my hand. Why did I let Barbara do this to me? It was stupid to get so upset. Nothing changed with her, and it never would. I wished for the nerve to tell Barbara to go to hell, but I wouldn’t. No matter how much she deserved it.
When I had myself under control, I retrieved supplies for dusting. Back in the living room, I cleared off surfaces, dusted, and applied lemon oil. Memaw wordlessly watched my activity.
Glitter dusted the bookcase. Rae had worn glittery body lotion that got all over everything. What had she been doing near the bookcase? She certainly hadn’t been the literary type. I wiped away the glitter.
“What’d she say?” Memaw muted the canned laughter on the television.
“She said Ron has an opening next week and for us to take care.” My eyes stung with tears.
Memaw’s eyes widened until the whites were visible. A ring of white appeared around her lips, and her dainty little hands clenched into fists. She said a few choice words rarely heard from a Sunday school teacher and fled to her bedroom.
I polished the armoire we used for a coat closet until I saw my reflection in it. Hard work gave me a place to hide. I didn’t have to think about disappointments and how to handle them when I worked hard. I could just work and work until I got too tired to think.
8
“Pastor Gage called while you were in the shower. He wondered if you’d spiff up his house for the candlelight tour of homes next week.” Memaw casually took a bite of her oatmeal as she said this. She kept her eyes focused on the window where some squirrels fought over the corn we put out for them. Only the slight twitch in her cheek gave away her delight in delivering this bit of news.
“I’ll call him and decline.” Michael Gage had brass. He’d taken a pretty bold step, going through Memaw to get me into his house with him. Those boyish dimples and that trim physique didn’t change my lack of interest in him.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Memaw wouldn’t look at me. “I accepted for you, even negotiated you a good price for your services.”
“Next week will pay enough without me having to work for him.” The idea of being alone with Michael Gage and his fascination with my link to the spirit world weirded me out. I remembered hearing his wife died tragically. What if he wanted me to try to contact her? No way. Or—and this idea nauseated me—what if he had some kinky paranormal sex fetish? Ewww.
“But you can do this today. I looked at your schedule and told him you had today free.” Memaw’s dark eyes danced. She would never insist I date Michael Gage, but she wouldn’t object. She laughed about my mini-romances with guys unable to be more than Mr. Right Now, but I knew they puzzled her. Our forty-five year age difference gave us different perspectives on affairs of the heart.
“Memaw,” I spoke through clenched teeth, “I don’t take jobs for him because he comes onto me.”
“I know.” Memaw wouldn’t look at me. “But you should think about giving him a chance. He’s a nice man. But if that doesn’t work for you, then this will: it’s good money. You’ll need it if you’re going to buy me a computer for Christmas.”
I choked on my grapefruit juice. Memaw shoved her glass of water at me as I whooped and sputtered. “How did you know?”
“Sugar, you could never play poker.” Memaw gave my arm an affectionate pat. “I do wish you wouldn’t buy something that expensive for me.”
“But you need a computer for your tutoring.”
“You treat me like something special, and I appreciate it.” Memaw’s dark eyes glistened with tears. “I couldn’t have asked for a better granddaughter.”
Unshed tears stung my own eyes. Memaw expected me to know she loved me. Despite her gruff ways, I’d never doubted it. I needed to hear her kind words after the phone call with Barbara. It helped to know I mattered to at least one person in my family.
“Pastor Gage is expecting you in about an hour.” Memaw knuckled the moisture out of her eyes. “You better hustle. Skip the deodorant if you want to quell his interest.”
Memaw stood an
d gathered the breakfast dishes while I guffawed. I wanted to work for Michael Gage almost as much as I wanted to eat road kill. If Memaw said she’d negotiated a good fee for me, I trusted her judgment. But I didn’t look forward to the job.
My resolve firmly in place and sans deodorant, I parked my Nova in the graceful, old house’s driveway and marched up the wide, brick steps. Michael Gage opened the high arched door before I could knock. He wore pressed jeans and a starched shirt buttoned at the collar. A dark, five o’clock shadow—that might have been sexy on someone else—was the only sign he was an actual man and not some sort of robot.
“Peri Jean.” He managed to sound surprised to see me.
“Memaw said you’d be expecting me?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve got some snacks for us. Come right in.” He stood aside for me to enter.
Mace House was awe inspiring, and I didn’t try to hide my appreciation. My ancestor Reginald Mace had been the richest man in town when he built his dream house. As the years passed, it fell into ruin. Michael Gage bought the decrepit old wreck two years earlier and announced his plan to fully renovate it. It had been a slow, painstaking process since Gage used old photographs of Mace House to guide his efforts. Rumor had it he spent over a million dollars. It showed.
“Straight through to the kitchen.” Gage led me through a wide area, open to the ceilings two stories above. Rooms stood open on either side and were visible around an interior balcony on the second floor.
“This is amazing.” I stopped to turn a slow circle. The highest windows had stained glass panes. A crystal chandelier’s hanging prisms sparkled, dancing rainbows on the walls. Gage smiled, but motioned me along. He walked close enough for me to smell his cologne. I tried hard to understand his interest in me but couldn’t. We had nothing in common.
The kitchen, a twentieth century addition, stood at the far end of the house. It was modern, with gleaming stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Gage had set out a tray of cheese and crackers. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat next to it. Van Morrison played softly. I bit my cheek to hide the smile tugging at my lips and choked down the laughter I wanted to bray at Gage’s idea of a seduction scene.
